by Danie Ware
“No one ever does.” Triqueta’s comment was bleak.
“Vahl’s gone,” Amethea rounded on her friend, plaintive, angry, defiant. “Rhan won, Fhaveon’s free – the bretir came with the message. You told us!” She looked back at the city’s Lord, gave a short laugh like the edge of hysteria. “That bit’s supposed to be over—”
Ecko snorted, loud and confrontational, echoing in the empty hall. When they all stared at him, eyes upon eyes, he bared his teeth.
“Yeah an’ the bad guys never come back after you kill ’em.” He grinned, malicious. “Answer me this – this Kiss, Kas, this Vahl must-be-a-bad-guy-’cause-his-name’s-got-a-‘z’-in-it – what’s he want?”
“Fhaveon,” Nivrotar said. “To defeat his brother and cast down the city of Saluvarith—”
“Fuck legend.” Ecko was agitated. He was onto something and he wasn’t sure what – it was like throwing a hot piece of metal from hand to hand. “When he got the city, what was he gonna do with it? Open schools? Build social housing projects, what? Hold an open-house party for all his daemon buddies?” His own jibe brought him up short – something had just occurred to him. “Like Tarvi?”
Triqueta flinched, said nothing.
Nivrotar watched Ecko. “What do you mean?”
“I mean…” The new thought was gathering pace; as he spoke, he understood what it was that he was trying to say. “Shit! Like – how many of these fuckers are there? Were there? Really? You talk about Vahl and the Kas, and we’ve seen – what – two? One big an’ one little? Where are the rest of them? The army of Kiss Vahl Thingies, the army of Tarvis just waitin’ to snog everything to death. I mean—”
“You mean, where are his friends?” Amethea’s voice was soft as the smothering pillow.
“Something else you’ve forgotten?” Ecko’s voice was jagged, and it tore.
Nivrotar rocked backwards, said nothing. She turned to look at the Bard, and they exchanged a long glance laden with fuck alone knew what. For a moment, their mutual Tundran resemblance was strong.
And the Lord of Amos looked old, older by far than Roderick, older even than the carved beastie behind her throne…
She looked exhausted.
Then Ecko blinked, and the look was gone – she was pale and perfect, elegant as ever.
“There was always suspicion,” Roderick said, his voice like the plainland’s empty wind. “All my life, Ecko, scrabbling for pieces. Fragments of forgotten lore. I went looking for the Kas upon Rammouthe, long ago – and I found no trace of them, or of their fabled citadel. And now Karine finds a truth I could never… never have dreamed…” At the word, his own voice cracked, failed. He leaned on the side of the seat, caught one huge, shaking gulp of breath, then another. His knees went, and he seemed to curl in on himself, to shrink away from the memory, from the body on the floor, from thoughts laden with pain and loss and fear. Ecko watched him, adrenaline tinged with a tangle of scorn and pity. Then Nivrotar said something in words unfamiliar, a language that sounded like the cracking of ice, ancient and cold.
Steadying, the Bard inhaled again, lifted his chin. His shoulders straightened. When he spoke, it was as distant as the white moon.
“Karine tells us that, whatever my reconnaissance told me, there are more Kas than just Vahl Zaxaar. And they walk here among us, in whatever strength and form. They may lack their commander, Ecko, but I fear you’re right: there is purpose.”
The word sent a chill through the room.
“Which is what?” Ecko said.
“Sadly, that I can’t answer.” As he spoke, his amethyst eyes seemed to flicker with a hint of his old humour. “Ah, Ecko. You wanted your epic victory, your Final War – perhaps the Gods will yet grant you that desire.”
“Perchance Vahl wanted Fhaveon as a bridgehead,” Nivrotar said sharply. Her finger tapped her cheek. “And if so, it would mean the Kas are indeed still upon Rammouthe, and that they will come – or have come – over the water. Perhaps they stalk already the streets of the Lord city.” She looked at them, one face after another. “This foreknowledge may be enough for us to face them.”
May be enough. The words sent a chill down Ecko’s spine.
“But – what about the blight?” Amethea said. “We need to be finding a cure.”
“We must comprehend before we can cure,” Nivrotar said. “But our lore is lacking and as yet, we know nothing.”
“And that’s a longer problem,” Triqueta said. “Look at the damage one daemon caused – if Vahl’s family are playing range patrol, then we need to know. And now. We need to know where they are, and where they’re going.” She looked back at the Lord of the city. “We should scout…”
“There may be a better way.” Nivrotar stood looking at the shrivelled Karine. “A way to bring them from hiding, to bring them to us and all unready. To draw them to a place and a time of our choosing and to assess and defeat them. It is a gamble, but a fierce one. And we should show no doubt or fear.” She looked up, held Triqueta’s eyes for a long, considered moment. “Roviarath holds to her freedom, does she not?”
“Yes, my Lord.” Triqueta smiled, a flicker of sunshine. “As far as I know.”
Nivrotar nodded. “Larred Jade is a strong Warden and a good man. You will bear him a message. Are you stalwart enough to ride the winter roads alone?”
“Ride…?” Triqueta blinked, realised the Lord was serious. She snorted.
“Good.” The Lord glanced sideways at the Bard, but his gaze was cold and he didn’t return the look. She said, “Ecko, Triqueta, Amethea, you have earned the gratitude of Amos, and of the world entire. In destroying Maugrim, you saved Roviarath and thus we stand not alone. In destroying Aeona, you halted the crafting of Amal’s creations, and forced Vahl into the open. If and when we come to confrontation, these are victories that will count in our favour. Trust in yourselves – you have might unrealised, and wisdom unseen.”
“Let’s damned well hope so.” Triqueta scratched at her flaking hands. “Or we’re all in the rhez together.”
With a flicker of a smile, Nivrotar came to stand by the broken Karine, the corpse’s dry, open eyes staring empty at the black vaults of the Varchinde’s oldest building.
“Once before, we discussed Amos finding the fighting freemen and women of the Varchinde, and this I have done.” Her eyes flashed. “I have a strong force here, enough to leave the city secure and to muster for a march.”
“A march?” Ecko said. “Can you say ‘overreaction’? Christ, we dunno what or where the Kas – Kiss – even are—”
“No.” The Lord met Ecko’s gaze. “But I know the one thing they cannot resist, the lure that will bring them to our gaze and our weapons both. And by that thing, so they can be led, like a furious child with a favourite toy.” Her smile was amused, pure and cold. The Bard was staring at her now, his eyes burning with question. “We have much knowledge – gleaned from The Wanderer, from the Library, from your own struggles and triumphs, from the Bard’s long returns of seeking, and from my rulership of this city. And I trust it will be enough.”
She turned her hand like a street conjurer, and released a single white feather that drifted gently to the stone floor.
“We have one chance to do this, and if we fail, the Kas will take us all.”
* * *
The Kas will take us all.
Triqueta stood alone, fighting a fear that seemed to wield many blades.
Outside the Lord’s audience hall, the archway was cold; the winter wind came through it hard from the empty terrace. Rain stung like flung stones.
Nivrotar had outlined an impossible plan, an insanity, a wager bigger than anything Triq had ever taken, ever dreamed of. It was crazed beyond words, hung on one single and critical assumption – but she had met Vahl Zaxaar and it made immediate sense. It thrilled her to the core of her soul.
Her message to Larred Jade in Roviarath, that was the easy part. The others—
Behind her, Ecko’s voice said
, “This is fuckin’ bullshit.”
Triqueta hugged herself against the chill, tried to work her chapped hands into her sleeves and failed. She’d left her cloak inside, and she was cold; her hair was everywhere, scratching at her face. Without turning, she said, “We don’t have a choice – the Kas are coming and that’s all there is to it. Face it, it’s not the most stupid thing we’ve done.”
“It’s fuckin’ insane.” Ecko paused, as if looking for the words for something, then ventured, “So, now we go to Fhaveon and we tell this ‘Rhan’ motherfucker he has to down tools and leg it across the plains with a host of daemons right up his ass. An’ you – you get to go home.”
“To Roviarath, to where the centaurs run.” She glanced slyly sideways, and her smile was humourless. “That’s not why I’m going—”
“You’re still lookin’ for him—”
“I want to go home, Ecko!” She dropped her chin, rounded on him. “I miss my family – should never’ve left in the first place. You led us on some Gods-damned dance—”
“Led you?” He bared his teeth. “What’re you, helpless now? You’re a big girl, you made your own choices—”
“Did I? Did you?” She snorted, anger and grief, ridicule. “We should never’ve gone to Aeona, whatever Nivvy just said. The terhnwood blade I was given in the pub, that damned brimstone – that alchemist wound us in like fish so he could have you. And you near damned us all, our whole world. And Redlock…”
The word choked her. She expected, wanted, Ecko to fight back, needed him to rise against her raw torrent of words, but instead he backed up, spreading his hands.
“Look, I didn’t come out here to pick a fight.”
“What?” Startled by his lack of resistance, Triq lost her momentum, staggered. Unsure, she sniped, “Makes a change.”
He pulled a face at her. “Put a fuckin’ sock in it willya, I’m tryin’ here. You wanna go home – like, I get it, y’know? I…”
“Yeah, I know.” It was Triqueta’s turn to back up. She shrugged, not sure where this was going. “I’m not used to you being… well, like that, I s’pose. Sorry.”
“Me too.”
For a moment, they stood there like kids, neither of them quite knowing what to say. Then Ecko lifted his chin and looked straight at her, black-on-black eyes like pits, expressionless.
“I don’t…” He paused, seemed to gather himself, to make a conscious, concentrated effort. “I don’t think you should go… ah… alone.”
I don’t think you should go alone.
It was just about the last thing she’d been expecting. For no reason, Triqueta found her pulse jumping, and she stared at him, his ill-fitting clothes wind-tight against one side of his lean body.
He said, “You came after me.” He seemed to be struggling, and, like staring at some deep fear, she was compelled to see where it would end. “You said, ‘We’re your friends, we came here because we love you, because we won’t abandon you, because we don’t walk out on family.’” Flickers passed though the colours in his skin. “I don’t want… I don’t think you should. Not all that way. Not with all the… y’know… critters an’ stuff…” His argument tailed into an awkward silence, but he held her gaze. He seemed fixed to the spot, tense.
“I don’t need an escort.” She mustered a laugh, before realising that really hadn’t been the point.
He was asking to come with her.
Asking…
Don’t be ridiculous, Triqueta told herself, you’re imagining it…
Something in her laugh had cowed him, and he dropped his gaze and stepped back out of the wind, into the shadow of the arch’s wall. He shrugged, backed away further. He seemed embarrassed, flickers of anger chased impossible blue lights in his empty black eyes. Muttering, he went to turn away.
Triq heard herself say, “Ecko, wait!”
“What?” The word was a lash, cutting, a knee-jerk reaction to hurt.
She said the first thing that came into her mouth. “I needed to ask you about something. Back there, when we were going into the wood and the soldiers caught Amethea…” Now, she found the words were falling from her, easing a weight on her heart she hadn’t even known she was carrying. “Would you… would you have let her die?” Her voice caught and she was crying again, unable to help herself. “Let all of us die?”
Would you have killed all of us in order to save yourself?
The question wasn’t about Amethea – it was about the choice he’d made on the alchemist’s table, the choice to damn their entire world in order to save his own skin.
Shame was one fucking ugly emotion.
“I’m gonna help you.” His rasp came from the wall shadow, softer now, almost gentle. “Goddamn motherfucking program. I’m gonna do this. You fucking see if I don’t.”
Triq drew a ragged breath, crying, almost laughing. “I believe you, I believe you.” She bit her lip against the sobbing and the words were lost.
“Jesus.” It was a confession, a realisation, a breaking. Even as Triqueta turned away from him, hands over her face, she could feel him move behind her, small and slight, taut as terhnwood fibre. As she turned back, she found herself abruptly too close – he was there in front of her, a hair taller than she was. His skin was flecked with the warm yellow of hers, the shine of the opal stones in her cheeks; his eyes were huge, featureless and terrifying. A glitter of black showed between his lips.
Hesitant, his hand touched her face. When she turned into it, almost as an excuse not to have to look at him, he caught his breath…
Stopped.
Her colour seeped into his skin.
She expected him to pull away, to snarl denial, to deliver some blistering retort, to hurl her back by word or gesture; she expected to have to fight. But there was nothing. He simply stood there, his hand on her cheek, breathless, unmoving.
Warm.
And something in her began to tremble. That touch was calling an answer from her belly, a spread of anticipation through her body that made her shake with the strangeness of it.
So many faceless lovers, grapple and sweat, attentions just to fill the holes in her soul. Rough relief or momentary comfort, all forgotten with the birth of the sun. And this…
Somewhere Triqueta heard an echo of Tarvi’s fire-crackle laughter, taunting.
The heat in her flared in response. His face was almost desert-shades now, warm and normal. Only those limitless, bottomless black eyes…
Neither of them moved. They stood there as if the Count of Time waited breathless, was watching them as they watched each other, transfixed, to see what they would do.
He said, his voice a whisper, a question, “Triq…”
But it broke the moment, and the cold sky lurched into motion. She stepped back, swallowed, unsure what had just happened. His arm fell back to his side as if it were lost.
“Sorry,” she said, not even sure why. “But I’m going alone. I don’t…” She’d been going to say, “I don’t want company”, but she realised that was a lie, and instead she trailed into an awkward silence. His closeness, his strangeness, had been so intense they’d made her shiver, made her skin thrill and her heart pound. She wanted…
No, that was just crazed.
She was going alone, and that was all there was to it.
Before she could do anything else, anything foolish, she took another step back. Then she turned and walked out through the archway.
He called after her, and it took an effort not to stop.
It took all the effort she had to turn the corner, and walk out into the cold.
4: MERCHANT MASTER
FHAVEON
In a small, high window at the aching heart of Fhaveon, there sat an old man in a red robe.
He wore pince-nez glasses, new and slightly too big for him. They slid down his nose constantly, to be retrieved by the reflexive shove of a finger. In his other hand was a pure white quill, tip dark with ink, and on the cold windowsill lay a heavy ledger, pages y
ellow and crackling. The book was covered in tally markers, bundles of fives and tens and days and distances. In the outermost corner of the open page, the old man was absently crafting a doodle, a humorous little sketch that might have been a stylised warrior.
But he was not really paying attention, either to the sketch or to the tallies. He was watching the grey street below, the scurries of dead winter leaves tumbling one over another, or stuck like fabric to the roadways; the hanging signs of craftsmen and traders now forlorn as the buildings they marked had been abandoned.
Occasionally, he heard voices, distant ripples of sadness and anger.
Merchant Master Mael was safe up here. Phylos’s old rooms were high and clean, reflecting the city’s zenith, and tucked away from the shatter and tumult that Fhaveon’s streets had become. Like his title, the rooms were too big for him, but they had one thing in common with his little tent in the marketplace – they were detached.
Though now, that detachment felt strange.
There had been a moment when Mael had been the pivot and lynchpin of the great city’s crisis, living and breathing it, vital and alive. In that moment, he’d not been an observer, he’d really made a difference – he was an old man and it had almost cost him his life, but he’d mattered. Now, some part of him craved that validation – wanted to be out there, understanding, living, feeling what the city was feeling, and helping. Mael was an academic, certainly, but these allocations of cycles and balances and craftmarks… they were cold. And frankly, the Cartel’s sigils and maps and endless equations were making his head hurt.
He glanced back at the little doodle, at the comical, heavyset warrior that grinned up at him from the paper.
You daft old bugger, what have you become!
Mael snorted, and pushed his glasses higher up his nose.
They’d named him a hero, a knight, a member of the Order of the Something or Other – there was a real white-metal medal somewhere with his name on it. He wore the decorous red robe of the Merchant Master – though he feared Phylos had carried the colour rather better – and he had the life-sworn loyalty of…